


a better fate than wisdom

by blue-plums (arabesque05)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Extramarital Affairs, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-16 04:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/blue-plums
Summary: “i am in disgrace with my lord husband,” sakura tells her lord husband’s hostage, “and am, as you see, sent back.“





	1. Chapter 1

“I am in disgrace with my lord husband,” Sakura tells her lord husband’s hostage, “and am, as you see, sent back; but why do I find you still here at my return? Were you not to be exchanged for Imagawa’s sixth-born? I hear he is but a child.”

“Yes, and sickly,” says Uchiha Sasuke, who is as tall and dark-haired and quiet as when she left him at first snowfall. “It did not seem prudent to move the child, in his condition, in winter. We wait.” His voice is low, and through the silk screen that separates them, his features seem well-formed. Her ladies-in-waiting say that he is a handsome man.

“So you intrude a little further on my hospitality,” says Sakura.

He inclines his head, silent.

“I am bereft,” Sakura declares. “How I should have liked a child in the castle! Children are very readily loved.”

Through the screen, she sees his head tilt. There is a moment of silence, and then, like cold seeping through the walls, cruel but strangely gentle, he says, “I am sure in time your lord husband will give you a child.”

“You think that the source of my disgrace, that I have not born a son,” says Sakura. “Or do you mean to insult my lord husband? –-That he is somehow lacking in bed? Well, your wit is not very precise, is it, lord samurai, that I must hold myself in suspense like this? I hope you wield your swords with better aim.”

“I am remonstrated,” he says politely; but there is the curl of something warmer in his voice, a dimpling of his formality.

“You do not ask the source of my disgrace?”

His head tilts again; Sakura wonders if it is an indication of consideration or of amusement. Eventually, he says, with infinite irony: “But how can that be? I have seen for myself -- my lady is all grace.”

* * *

Sakura is not Uzumaki Naruto’s first wife, nor his principle wife, but she is perhaps his drinking companion wife: that is, she more often than not drinks him under the table. Politically, she tethers him to his eastern provinces and gives his claim of those rice-laden lands some legitimacy. Domestically, they are not well-suited: Naruto likes a full court at his primary castle, surrounded by glittering courtiers and loyal vassals; Sakura cannot stand the performative noise of it all. 

Still, she has some measure of affection for her husband, and he for her, though nothing as gauche as love; kindly, he allows her her own castle and residence; kindly, she never taxes his attention or purse.

* * *

“I hear you were fostered with my lord husband in the Hatake household,” says Sakura one day, seated with the doors to the veranda open. Outside, the late winter sunshine glitters on the lingering snow, through which young daffodils are beginning to push. Uchiha Sasuke sits on the veranda, feeding birds; a hanging silk screen, as ever, separates them for propriety. Silhouetted against the sun, his figure is clear through the screen; he has broad shoulders, to go with his height. 

“Yes,” he says. At his voice, the birds on the veranda depart in a flutter of wings. He watches them go. “It was a long time ago,” he says.

“You are so old, now,” mocks Sakura.

He makes sound; it isn’t a sigh. Sakura wonders if maybe he laughed.

“I married him because,” Sakura smiles, “my lord husband wrote me a very beautiful poem and I fell in love with his handwriting. Is it not romantic?”

“You must learn to lie better,” says Sasuke.

“He paid my aunt Tsunade- _hime_ two-thousand  _koku_ of rice,” admits Sakura. “At the time I was flattered at so high a price; but now -- I do not know if that is perhaps just the common rate for daimyo wives.”

“I do not know,” says Sasuke, disinterestedly. “I am not familiar with the price of things.”

Money is a vulgar thing among samurai. Sakura momentarily indulges the vulgarity. “Of women?” she asks.

“I have not bought one,” says Sasuke.

“Of swords?” asks Sakura.

“Of swords?” he repeats.

Through the silk screen, Sakura sees his head turn around. She wonders what color his eyes are in the sunlight. 

“How can they be bought or sold?” he asks. “Lady -- they are my soul.”

* * *

As the weather warms, and her heavy brocade replaced with lighter silks, Sakura sees less of Uchiha Sasuke. It is planting season again, and Sakura has a household to run. Some evenings though, he joins her on the veranda in the lantern-light, listening to the sound of rainfall. 

“In a month or two, we shall see fireflies,” she say.

He is quiet. After several moments, he tells her, “I received word today: Imagawa’s child -- his sixth-born -- did not survive the winter.”

Sakura watches the raindrops reflect the lantern-light. She says, “So you stay. Or is there a seventh-born who will do as well?”

“A daughter,” says Sasuke, so quiet that his voice mixes with the rain patter. 

“A daughter,” says Sakura, distantly. “I wonder. Do we wait until she comes of age? Do you suppose my lord husband would pay two-thousand  _koku_  for her as well? Or will you be sufficient return?”

“Lady, do you price me at two-thousand  _koku_?”

“Let us be equals,” Sakura says. “In this, at least.”

He does not answer. A wind passes through, splattering raindrops on the silk screen; the candle flickers in the lantern. Sasuke draws back from the edge of the veranda. He says, “After the fireflies, there will be cicadas. Shall we look for them, when they sing?”

“Will you take me?” Sakura asks, heart suddenly still.

“Will you come?” he answers.

The moon is hidden by the rain clouds; the only light comes from the lantern, which casts strange shadows on the silk screen. The air smells like rain and damp earth. There are no flowers in bloom; and he has written her no poetry. Sakura finds that she does not mind.

“Lord samurai,” she says, smiling, “will you not remove this screen between us?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sakura is supervising the smoking of sandalwood and cedar to perfume her robes -- there are many, composed of layers and layers of silk; it is heavy work and the smoke stings her eyes -- when she glances outside: Sasuke in the courtyard, going through sword forms with a  _bokken_. Where had he come by such a thing? Sakura wonders briefly; even a wooden sword in the hands of a skilled swordsman is a dangerous thing, and by all that Sakura has heard of Uchiha Sasuke, he is certainly skilled. But Sakura finds that she cannot muster any anxiety over the matter. He has spent a winter and spring with her now, and she understands him a little: his swords are his soul, and his honor his lifeblood; he does not consider reneging on the terms of his being held hostage.

All that aside: sweat dampens the hair at his brow and the nape of his neck; his sleeves are pulled up and tied back, and the muscles in his forearms are exquisite. Sakura cannot help but look. He is a handsome man, she thinks; handsomer than rumored, even. Tall and broad-shouldered, as befit one who wore swords; but dark-eyed and high-browed, like a poet. Sakura had not expected that.

She looks at him, some while longer.

* * *

Sakura married her lord husband when she was thirteen, and at fourteen carried a child for six months in her womb, but it did not live, and there were no more children after that. Sakura was not of so noble a lineage that her blood would be an asset to any of her husband’s children; Naruto preferred dark-haired, sloe-eyed women, anyway.

What Sakura remembers of her marriage bed is perhaps not sufficient cause for aversion; certainly, Naruto had not been unkind, if maybe young and fumbling. But Sakura does not miss her marriage bed. Sex, in practice, had passed quickly enough, but it had not been pleasurable. Afterward had been strange too: Sakura spoke with Naruto mostly about the weather and comparative merits of shochu and sake, neither of which seemed appropriate in bed. She had been grateful when he rose and left.

* * *

Now that the evenings are warmer, Sasuke joins her on the porch more often. They still sit with a screen between them, more for the form of propriety than actual propriety. He had lifted it once, and she had seen his face, and he hers -- but Sasuke is the child of an old, old family, and reserve had been bred in his bones. She allows him this pretense: it does not matter, anyway, now that she has seen him. She can imagine for herself how the candlelight plays on his face, how his brows furrow in thought, the lovely turn of his wrists.

Besides, he sits closer now. Sometimes, sakura can see the spread of his robes; if she reached out, she could touch the silk. It is a pleasant thought. She smiles to herself and flounces out her skirts a little more.

* * *

The summer rains come early that year. Sakura has the porch doors closed, to keep the water out; but that evening, it is just him and her inside a room. Sakura reads. Sasuke --

“My lord!” exclaims Sakura, staring through the screen. “Are you sewing?”

“There is a hole in this sock,” he says. After a pause, he asks, “Is it shocking? Should one not do such things when in company?”

“You must not regard me as company,” Sakura assures him. “My court manners are very rusty; we would both be embarrassed if I were to use them.” She puts aside her book and draws up her knees, folding her arms and resting her cheek on them. She considers his shadow through the silk screen. “I am surprised that you are so handy with a needle and thread. I had expected men to pass such things to their wives or servants.”

“It would be an exaggeration to call me handy,” says Sasuke. “It is only necessity. I have no wife nor servant.”

“Yes, but why should you hesitate to call on the castle’s servants?”

“It was late,” he murmurs. “It is no great matter. Another time, I will.”

She watches his shadow through the silk screen for a little while; but it is not terribly exciting. Sewing is detailed work and does not require large motions. Still, Sakura watches with affectionate pleasure; there is something dear in the slope of his shoulders and the bend of his head, dear and familiar. She has spent a winter and a spring with this man; give it a summer and autumn, and it will be as long as she had lived with her husband. That is a strange thought.

“How goes your progress, lord samurai?” she asks, daring to tease a little.

There is, in return, something like the curl of a smile in his voice as he answers, “Poorly, my lady. I wound myself.”

“Do you bleed? Is the wound mortal?”

“I will live,” he answers gravely.

“Shall I show pity on you?” Sakura asks, and without waiting for a replay, sticks her hand past the edge of the silk screen. “I will relieve you, sir.”

He holds still for a several moments. Perhaps it had been indecorous, offering to handle his  _tabi_ ; he is not her husband, nor her brother, nor her son. But sakura does not withdraw, and eventually, Sasuke folds the needle and thread into the fabric of his socks. He passes them to her, his fingers lingering against her palm.

“I am relieved,” he says, skin warm against hers.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The rainy season continues, casting the skies in gray and washing away flower petals from the trees. “So passes another spring,” sighs Sakura. She peers at the bare cherry tree branches, their delicate blossoms torn down by the force of the rain. “I am not named for a hardy flower, as you see.”

“But well-celebrated,” says Sasuke. “You would prefer to be hardy, instead of fêted?”

“Much-adored or long-adored,” muses Sakura. “How should I choose? Have you a preference?”

He smiles, amused and maybe a little sad. "At court: much-adored; at home: long-adored; neither presently being the case–lady, suffer yourself to be patient with me, and I am content.”

“Easily contented!” remarks Sakura. But it plucks at her heart, that he neither enjoys the comforts of home nor the satisfaction of industrious employment, and instead, is forced to languish in some minor regional castle of no distinction. 

* * *

From what Sakura has seen, Uchiha Sasuke writes in a steady hand: his characters are not especially beautiful, but they have in them a great deal of strength. his is a stubborn soul, suspects Sakura -- lacking somewhat in sensitivity, but not unkind; a little selfish in his willfulness, but all ambitious men are like that, and ambition -- properly tempered by rectitude -- is no bad thing in a man.

“And what other accomplishments? Do you play music? Do you sing? Can you recite poetry?” asks Sakura, one evening when the rains have kept them indoors too long.

“Must my lady make a minstrel of me?” he asks stiffly.

She makes a face at him through the silk screen, though he cannot see. “I like minstrels,” Sakura says. “They know all sorts of interesting stories: illicit affairs between samurai and courtesans, illicit affairs between samurai and their lord’s wives, illicit affairs between -–”

“i do not know if you are calling me indiscreet, or promiscuous, or unprincipled,” says Sasuke, though without any real heat. He has not taken offense; Sakura suspects that this is because most of the time he does not take her seriously.

“I am calling you ungenerous -- I do not believe you have no stories to tell or poems to recite.”

“No, I think you are threatening me: will you tell one of these illicit stories if I do not oblige you? Do you think it will embarrass me?” He pauses for a moment, as if considering. 

Sakura scowls at him across the screen -- what an uncooperative man! 

There is the rustle of clothes. Then Sasuke leans forward and lifts aside the silk screen. Sakura startles. All of a sudden, he is so close, his face so near. She had forgotten how dark his eyes are, like fresh-ground ink; and how large he is! -– tall and broad-shouldered, looming larger than her. It had not been so apparent when he was a shadow through the silk screen. Sakura feels her cheeks burn, as if embarrassed -- but she is not embarrassed.

Perhaps he too is surprised, perhaps he too has forgotten; Sasuke stares at the pale ruddiness of Sakura’s hair, and then at her mouth, and then her eyes; then he smiles, almost involuntarily, and tells her, “I am not afraid of you.”

* * *

The next evening, Sakura does not draw the silk screen down. Sasuke pauses and looks at her; then he sits, and does not say anything.

“The pickling brine for the daikon spoiled yesterday, with all this rain,” says Sakura. “I am afraid we will not have any pickled radishes for the next several weeks at least.”

“Umeboshi?” asks Sasuke.

“They’re still all right,” says Sakura, a little charmed by such boyishly apparent food preferences. “Do you prefer them?”

The silk screen is left up. They do not use it, after that.

* * *

The damp heat of summer settles over them, and the daylight lingers longer each night. Sakura takes care to lay out the tatami mats in the afternoon sun, and to air out the futons in the shade. There are rice fields to tend, and mirin to brew, and goji berries to dry. She doesn’t know what Sasuke does during the day: perhaps he wades out into the river oyster beds; or goes up into mountains for chestnuts and pinenuts and persimmons; possibly he helps out in the fields as well -- rice is, after all, more important than even a samurai’s dignity. The summer days are long, and full, even for someone of as noble blood as Uchiha Sasuke.

In the evenings, as the fireflies come out, Sakura serves tea and they drink quietly, sitting side by side. They watch golden glimmers floating in the night. Sometimes they speak; sometimes Sasuke watches as Sakura mends a sock or a hem; sometimes she reads to him. There is a word for it all, thinks Sakura: but he is not her lord, and she is not his wife; the word is not meant for them.

* * *

One morning, fog blankets the ground, thick enough that there is no use going out into the fields until the sun has cleared it away. Sakura spends the morning replying to letters. A little before lunch, she makes two cup of tea and sets them on a tray, and goes to see if Sasuke is still in the castle.

She finds him seated on the veranda, leaning against the wall. His head lists to one side, and there are three plums in his lap. He is napping.

She sets down the tea tray, and considers him. Something rises in her chest, warm and immaterial as the steam from the tea. She feels an unbearable tenderness towards him. The shadows cast by his eyelashes on his cheeks, the loose curl of his fingers in sleep, the way one foot peeks out from the folds of his hakama -– all these are such dear things; Sakura’s heart aches with them.

She shifts the tea tray aside and sits down next to Sasuke. Sakura has never felt this way toward another person before -- but she is not stupid. The ache in her heart needs no convoluted explanation. She stares out at the fog and listens to the slow, steady breaths of the man next to her.  _Ah_ , she thinks a little sadly, _so it is like this_.

* * *

Sakura wakes in some discomfort: a soreness in her neck, pain in her cheek. She lifts her head and blinks away the sleep -- Sasuke peers at her with placid, dark eyes. Sakura looks around. She had fallen asleep next to Sasuke -- no, she realizes:  _on_ him, her head against his shoulder. 

“Oh,” she said, cheeks staining red. “I didn’t mean to -- Oh, you could have woken me.”

“It was no inconvenience,” he says quietly and looks away. “You may borrow it a while longer.” He raises a teacup to his mouth and sips -- the tea she had brought earlier.

“That must be cold by now,” Sakura says. She sits up straight and looks at him. Her mind still feels slow with sleep. He had said that she could -- he had said --

“It’s fine,” he says. He sets the cup down and considers the fruit in his lap. He picks one up and rubs a thumb across it. “Would you like a plum?” he asks, and offers it to her.

Sakura takes the plum. It’s ripe with summer, purple and plump. She looks at it for several moments. Nothing feels real -- yet, if she were still asleep, what an absurd dream this would be! But he had offered her his shoulder -- and given her a plum -– and Sakura understands, suddenly, his offer. It hasn’t anything to do with his shoulder or plums at all. He had woken up with her leaning against him -- improper in every way -- and he hadn’t moved her, or waken her, or shifted himself. He had stayed.

Something flutters in her heart for one breathless moment: equal parts hope and despair. This will not end well, thinks Sakura; and does not care.

Her hand tightens around the plum. Sakura draws a breath -- and leans against Sasuke again. She rests her head on his shoulder. Sasuke stays very still and very quiet. Several moments pass. Deliberate, deliberate, thinks Sakura; they have committed themselves; this cannot be withdrawn.

She takes a bite from the plum. Flavor bursts on her tongue -– a sunshine sweetness, and a tart undercurrent. Golden juice spills over on her hand and trails down her wrist. “Oh,” says Sakura in dismay.

The next moment, Sasuke reaches over and wraps a hand around her arm, wipes away the juice with his thumb. He brings the hand to his mouth; a flash of pink, the swipe of his tongue against his thumb. “It is sweet,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” says sakura, breathless at such casual intimacy.

He slants a smile down at her: that same amused and slightly sad smile as when he asked her to be patient with him. “This must be something of a cliche, here. Your minstrels have sung of such ones as us.”

Sakura takes another bite of the plum. “They have.”

“It will not end well.”

“No,” she agrees. “It never does, in songs.”

“Well then,” says Sasuke, taking her free hand in his. He thread his fingers through hers. “So long as you understand.”

Sakura finishes her plum and tosses the pit over the veranda railing. Sasuke sits with her. At length, she says, “I have to boil soybeans this afternoon -- for the miso. What plans have you?”

“It is the season for green yuzu,” he says. “I may go gather some.”

“Come have lunch then,” says Sakura. She makes to get up -- but Sasuke stays sitting, and keeps her hand in his. Sakura stops, half bent over him. She turns, questioning, to face him.

He leans up, pulls her gently with one hand, and presses his mouth to hers -– softly, warmly, tender in a way Sakura had not imagined when she thought of–of–torrid illicit affairs sung by minstrels. But he kisses her, quietly, something just theirs, not to be sung of at all. Her heart trembles.

He pulls back after several moments. He stands. The tip of his ears are flushed red, but his face his composed, and he keeps his hand in hers. “Lunch,” he says, with an admirable attempt at composure.

Sakura smiles: “All right,” she says, and they go inside.


	4. Chapter 4

So Sasuke came to her bed, or she went to his -- Sakura did not remember how things first started, and then it no longer mattered. Sakura thought perhaps guilt would weight heavier and heavier, that same despairing ache in her chest she had felt when she sat down next to Sasuke with tea and plums; but it didn’t, and Sakura was only -- happy.

Sasuke, she thought, was happy too, though he expressed it little. But he took out his swords more often, and Sakura grew to be familiar with the rasp of rice paper against the metal blade. They were a handsome set, his long and short swords, three  _tomoe_ decorating the  _tsuba_ guard -- the crest of the Uchiha clan.  _His soul,_  he had called those swords, and he polished them in her presence. Sakura recognized a compliment when she was paid one.

When the candles burned low, he put away his swords and she put away her letters; they never discussed it, but by some unspoken agreement went to his bed or hers. Sakura did not send for her maid. “Are your arms strong enough?” she teased, and Sasuke smiled a little in the moonlight. He reached for her robes, the layers upon layers upon layers of silk that befit a daimyo wife. It did weight rather a lot. 

Her outer garments shed, Sakura breathed deeper and roller her shoulders. Sasuke looked a little lost in the sea of brightly colored silks. Sakura laughed and went to him and helped hang the clothes. 

Then it was his turn. That was much simpler. Sakura pulled his kimono free from his hakama and reached for the hakama ties. Sasuke looked at her, eyes very dark, as Sakura picked at the ribbon knot. It came undone; his hakama fell to the floor. They were only in their undergarments.

“This is not the sort of torrid passion I was promised,” Sakura observed, picking up the hakama and shaking out its creases. She folded it and set it aside. When she turned, Sasuke had pulled out the futon and spread the covers. His  _juban_ was made of very fine, thin cloth and she could see the flex of his muscles underneath it, the soft shadows cast by his shoulder blades.

“Lady,” he said, “you took off my pants and have not even kissed me yet.”

“Sir,” she answered, going to him, “you took off my eight robes yet call me so coldly ‘lady’. If by my unkindness you suffered, what shall I call such unchivalry --”

“Sakura,” said Sasuke and wrapped a hand around her wrist. His eyes were very bright and his hand was warm and she wondered if he could feel the tremble in her pulse; then he leaned down, and she thought he was smiling when he kissed her. His mouth was warm too. Like his hand, and -- she supposed -– his eyes. Sakura wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him for a long time.

Eventually, her neck began to hurt. “You are so tall,” she complained, but it was not a complaint at all. They sat down. She untied his  _juban_  and pushed it off his shoulders -- such broad shoulders -–; he shifted and with the deftness of long practice unwound his  _fundoshi_ ; and then he was naked before her, the long length of him. “Oh,” sighed Sakura. She touched his soft mouth, and the hard planes of his chest, and the pale stretch of his stomach; and then lower, where he was hot and hard and wanting.

“Sakura,” he said again. His voice frayed a little.

Sakura smiled. The tip of him was wet, slippery; the skin along his length felt very thin and soft, but when she squeezed, there was no give at all. Tt was so strange; all of this was yet unfamiliar, but this in particular, this marked maleness. Sakura did not think touching him would ever be anything less than fascinating.

Sasuke bore it patiently for a while. When he grew -- impatient? she did not think that he was  _bored_ , certainly; eager, perhaps -– then he pressed forward, pressed against her until they both went toppling onto the futon covers. Sakura laughed aloud, pinned under him -- ”Sasuke!” she said, and her hands fluttered indecisively over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, in his hair, against his back -- there was so much of him to touch, an overwhelming wealth.

“Hmm?” he pressed a kiss under her jaw and another against the soft skin of her neck. He nosed the curve of her collarbone. The weight of him was somehow comforting: he moved so quietly around the house, like an irritable ghost, but like this, spread over her, he was all solid muscle and long limbs, human and flesh and real. 

“Come kiss me again,” she murmured, so he did. He kissed her with tongue and lips and teeth, deep and bruising and as if there was nothing outside of her.  _Oh, oh_ , thought Sakura, when she could think. There was that strange ache between her thighs -- but it was not an ache exactly. It did not hurt. She trembled with the namelessness of it --

Sasuke pressed an open hand against her hip -- she felt the heat of his palm through her undergarments. He passed the hand over her waist, up her stomach, into open collar of her  _juban --_

“ _Yes_ ,” she said; and when he pushed the collar over her shoulders -- ” _yes,”_  she told him; and when he brushed his thumb over the curve of her breast, and when he lowered his head to take the nipple into his hot, hot mouth -- ” _yes_ ,” she said, “Sasuke,” -- he lifted his head, and drew off her undergarments so that she lay bare under him, and they were skin to skin.

Sasuke paused a moment; he pressed his forehead against her shoulder and exhaled. Her nipple that he had taken into his mouth pebbled with the cold. He was hot and heavy against her hip, and his shoulders were bunched with muscle as he leaned his weight on one elbow; but his expression in the moonlight was - _-_ startlingly young. He was not much older than her after all, and –- now, his mouth was so soft, and his eyes so large -- he looked vulnerable and unsure.

Sakura’s heart ached. Suddenly, madly, she wanted to take him in her arms and keep him from all the hard edges of the world. “Dearest,” she said --

He took a trembling breath. The next moment, he pressed a kiss at the corner of her mouth, and then on her cheek -– strangely chaste. “Yes,” he said, and exhaled all in a rush. “It is not -- it isn’t just this -- the  _torrid --_ you know, don’t you? -- not just this. I -– I don’t want the songs -- Sakura -–”

“–-What?” she frowned. It was difficult to focus.

But he gave a little shake of his head. Then he reached between her legs and pressed two fingers into her -- where she was wet, wet, and wanting. “ _Ohh_ ,” sighed Sakura and opened her legs further.

Eventually, Sasuke took away his fingers. Sakura made a wordless noise of protest; he laced his hand with hers, his fingers still wet. “Wait, wait -–” he said, breathlessly; and then he was pressed against her entrance, the hot blunt tip of him. Above her, his face was flushed, color staining his cheeks and neck; his mouth had been bitten red; sweat dampened the hair at his temples -- he looked a wreck, a beautiful ruin --

“Please,” she said to him. “Please --"

Sasuke made a sound low in his throat, as if in pain, but Sakura thought it was not pain. Then he pressed inside her. His arms trembled. “Wait -– stop -–” panted Sakura; because he was so much larger than her and it still hurt. Sakura shifted her hips. After a little while, the sharpness disappeared, though there remained a little aching throb, but it was almost pleasant. “All right,” she said, “can you -- slowly -–?”

He could, and slowly. And when Sakura grew impatient with some nameless want, when  _slowly_  seemed insufficient -- then Sasuke could and faster, too. An expression of almost pain came over his face -- he bit his lip and bowed his head. He breathed faster. His eyes met hers; and -- he was so dear to her, Sakura did not know what to do with the overwhelming affection in her heart -- she leaned up and kissed his red-bitten mouth, clumsily, messily --

He made a choking noise. His hips stuttered and then took on a new rhythm, harder and faster. His grip on her hand tightened and he looked a little wild around the eyes. “Sakura, Sakura,” he said, low and quiet like a secret kept close to the heart, “Sakura,” and then he pressed her against the pillow and kissed her, and like that, he came.

Sakura held him through the after tremors, and patted his back soothingly while he panted like a hard ridden horse. After a moment, he pulled out. She felt his come spill out of her, a wet trail still warm against her skin.

His brows creased a little. “You didn’t -–”

“What did you mean–-’not just this’?” she asked.

He slipped a finger inside her: she was open and so slick -- with her own wetness, with his come; his finger went in easily. “Do you want–-”

“Sasuke,” she said.

“I-–” he frowned, the set of his mouth mulish. He leaned down and bit her collarbone lightly. After several moments, he said, “I do not have two-thousand  _koku_. I do not think I ever will.”

“What -–” 

But even as she asked, Sakura knew: two-thousand  _koku_  had been her bride price _._

She took his free hand, and rubbed his knuckles and the calluses on his palm. “It would not have mattered, if it had been you,” she told him quietly. “I would have married you if you were a pauper or a lord, and even if you had won me in disgrace on the battlefield, I would have been glad.”

Almost imperceptibly, the tension left his shoulders; Sakura only noticed when it was gone. She thought how she had teased him about a promised “torrid affair”; but it had never been such a thing for him, even in teasing.

“Sakura,” he said -- he was not good with words, unaccustomed to expressing himself in speech. But she met his gaze; and she thought they understood each other tolerably well.

Then Sasuke moved down, pressing kisses against her ribs, her stomach, the crease of her thigh, and lower still. “Oh!” Sakura startled. He put his mouth against her opening -- sucked -- the sound was obscene -- his fingers were inside here, two, then three -– his tongue moved against something, unbearably good --

It did not take long. Everything inside her tightened, crested; and then -- a long, warm unfurling. Her limbs felt loose, unmoored. Sasuke came back up, chin and cheeks wet. Sakura laughed and made a half-hearted attempt at wiping them; she made some noises about going to bed. Sasuke did not move, and Sakura did not really want to anyway.

“What did it taste like?” she asked at length, curious.

Sasuke’s nose wrinkled, boyishly. “Strange,” he said. He kissed her, suddenly, a wicked gleam in his eyes: “Like that,” he told her.

“Unchivalrous!” Sakura declared. “Sir! I protest! So unhandsome!”

His shoulders shook. After a moment, warm and relaxed and glad of heart, Sakura laughed too.

**Author's Note:**

> _my blood approves,  
>  and kisses are a better fate  
> than wisdom_
> 
> \-- e. e. cummings


End file.
